


Natural Born Sinner

by vaduva



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Dark, BAMF John, Blow Jobs, Dark John, Eventual Smut, Hand Jobs, Killer John, M/M, Murder, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Sherlock, Rough Sex, Serial Killer John, Top John, Violent Thoughts, dark!john
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-18
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-13 14:44:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3385604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaduva/pseuds/vaduva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is utterly mundane. Normal. Domestic. Polite. Until the night he takes a hammer and kills his wife. But he's the victim here.<br/>Sherlock Holmes is on the case, and grows frustrated as he tries to unravel how Sarah Watson ended up murdered. He has an inkling who did it, but the suspect is nearly impossible to crack and he can find no proof. John Watson is an enigma to Sherlock Holmes and he is undeniably, and irately, transfixed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You're Gonna Lose Your Soul Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> Basically I've been watching too much Fargo and I'm in love with Lester Nygaard and sometimes he reminded me of John Watson; in that they're both seemingly unassuming characters yet capable of killing. So this is me having fun with a very dark John, and a very allured Sherlock.

By the time the seventh and final swing of the hammer came around John's entire body was trembling, his lungs pulling in air raggedly and his pulse a wild thing fluttering against his rib cage. Chest heaving, eyes wide like he was in a darkroom, all he did for several seconds was stare down at the blood patterns and the limp body of his wife. Hammer hanging loosely in his grip, he bent down. Her face was no longer recognizable; merely a pulp of tissue and blood and bone. After another moment of blankly watching the immobile body beside him, he came to his senses and look at his watch. He had a half hour until Harry was supposed to show up for dinner and a dead body in his basement and he was covered in blood. Moving quickly now, he began yanking off his clothes.

 

Sherlock sat on the edge of the couch, elbows resting on his knees, fingers stapled against his chin, eyes staring intently at the two pills sitting on the coffee table three feet away. They stared back; white and oval shaped and a steadfast promise. His right hand moved the slightest bit, inching to move forward and grab- the sound of his cell phone made him spring up from the couch and bypass the pills, grabbing the mobile beside them. It had been a game of case or pills, and the case had pulled through this time. Not so much the last time.

He clicked open the line, putting it on speaker so he could put away the pills at the same time before Mrs. Hudson saw and had a fit. “What have you got?”

“Looks like a possible break-in-”

“Dull.” Sherlock dismissed, snapping the lid back down on the ibuprofen bottle.

“Will you let me finish?” Lestrade insisted.

Sherlock paused in the living room, tucking the small bottle into his slack's pocket. “I'm waiting.”

“Wife was found murdered in the basement. Husband's unconscious, we've got him heading to hospital now. Think you can come and take a look?”

A brief smile of victory lightened Sherlock's face as he grabbed his coat, shrugging into it. “Happy to.”

 

Sherlock arrived on the scene in at a suburban cream colored house just outside London. Donavon greeted him with a mild “ _Hey freak_ ” but it was half-hearted and Sherlock barely paid it any mind as he brushed past her, ducking under the police tape. The front door was open, and a team of forensics were moving around. The foyer was perfectly in place; the husband's jacket strewn over the back of a chair, fireplace going, and- ah, there it was – a small drop of blood toward the entrance to the basement.

Sherlock crouched down beside it, just as Anderson was about to walk on it, and the consulting detective put out a hand to halt him from stepping any further. “Do try not to ruin every shred of evidence you can.” Sherlock murmured, taking out his magnifying lens.

Anderson scoffed. “What are you doing here, freak?”

“Lestrade called me. Seems once you again you can't do your job right.”

“We don't need your help.”

“That's not what Lestrade seems to think.” snapping the lens shut, Sherlock stood up. Without a glance in Anderson's direction he took the steps down to the below ground floor. At the bottom of the staircase he found Lestrade, and a woman's body.

“Sarah Watson.” the DI stated. “Her husband's Dr. John Watson; he works at a clinic in London. He was just discharged from the military last year, Wounded in action. They married before he left to go into service fourteen years ago.”

Sherlock bent down on one knee beside the body of Sarah Watson.

“John's sister is the one that found them. Said she was coming over to have dinner. I questioned her briefly, but she's pretty shaken up, I couldn't get a whole lot from her.”

Standing back up, Sherlock surveyed the room.

“So?” Lestrade prompted. “Break in gone awry?”

“A break in? At seven in the evening while the occupants are clearly home? Please, use what little intelligence you have and observe.”

Lestrade gave him a tired look.“Okay. So it's a murder, and they were after the wife and not the husband.”

“Murder, yes.” Sherlock agreed slowly, eyeing the open toolbox. He went over to it, rifling a bit through the contents. “The husband was injured as well? Head injury?”

“Yeah, knocked unconscious. He was barely coherent when they were taking him out on the stretcher.”

“I need to question him.” Sherlock muttered.

“I'm going to question him. When he's coherent enough. I can tell you what he says.”

Sherlock looked over at the DI. Silently, he left the crime scene.


	2. Oh Lord, I Got No Minds For You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has left kudos already! I hope you guys are enjoying my morbid alternate Sherlock universe~

John woke up to the noise of a heart monitor and a voice outside the door demanding entrance into his room.

"I'm working with the police. It's vital I speak to Dr. Watson." a deep spoken man intoned.

Police. John's throat grew tight with panic.

"I understand, but he's resting right now. Surely it can wait, the man has a concussion."

"Very well. I can wait in the room until he wakes. Thank you for your unhelpful assistance."

The nurse he had been conversing with was stammering objections, but John heard the door to his room open and close. The soft click of dress shoes on the tile approached. John kept his eyes shut, hoping he could pretend to be sleeping still. He breathed steadily, though his pulse was faster than normal. The stupid monitor made that a bit obvious. John cursed internally.

"I hope it isn't my presence that's unsettling you, doctor." the smooth voice spoke from the end of the bed.

Shit. Shit.  _Shit_. John blinked his eyes open, feigning lethargy as he carefully moved his head to take a look at the man intruding his hospital room. He was tall, very lean it seemed, though adorned in a long coat. His hair was a tousled heap of dark curls and his gaze was bright blue, and rather intense. John swallowed, the taste in the back of his throat sour, and pulled himself up in a sitting position, wincing even though he wasn't in very much pain.

"Can I help you?"

He studied John intently for a few moments before answering. "The name is Sherlock Holmes. I'm a consulting detective for the police."

"Consulting detective?" John mused, his voice a bit raw sounding. He was dying of thirst. "Never heard of that before."

"That's because I invented the job."

"Oh, okay then. So?" John tried at a polite smile, but it was tight and insincere he knew.

"I'd like to ask you some questions about what happened." Sherlock slipped his gloves off, moving to sit down on the couch against the wall.

John licked his lips, forcing himself to remain as calm as possible. He nodded. "Yeah, of course. But-um, you know I'm not feeling the best right now. So if we could maybe postpone it...that would-uh, be better."

"John, your wife was murdered last night." the man stated in a blunt manner.

The doctor pressed his lips together, face transitioning into anguish. His eyes pricked with tears. They were more guilty than sorrowful, but the difference was unnoticeable. "She- she's gone?" he choked out. "I mean- I knew...she..." he covered his mouth with his hand, squeezing his eyes shut. "Oh god." he croaked, letting a few tears fall for dramatic effect.

Sherlock watched with full attention, noting his reaction closely. "Yes, very sorry for your loss." he stated flatly.

John shook his head. "I can't believe...oh, god. _Why_." he covered his face with his hand, trying to coerce more tears out. He looked up, blinking past the wetness in his corneas. "Where's Harry? My sister is she-...she's-"

"Harriet Watson said she came into your home and found you unconscious next to your dead wife. She saw no signs of anyone else on the premises. Tell me what happened, Dr. Watson. Who killed your wife?"

"I-" John breathed a shaky exhale. "Everything's still so...so hazy. I-I can't remember exactly...just-" he swallowed, shaking his head. "-I came home, from work, and I heard -um, I heard noises from downstairs, so I went down to check and she-...Sarah, she was lying on the ground..." he made a small noise, not unlike a whimper, covering his face again briefly. "There was so much blood. So much."

"Please, doctor, go on. I need as much as detail as possible." Sherlock leaned forward in his seat, hands settling together in a prayer like position against his chin.

"Then, I- someone grabbed me from behind and I tried to struggle with them, but they...they slammed my head into the wall and after that..." John held up a helpless, trembling hand in a meek gesture. "I don't remember anything after that besides being loaded into the ambulance and then waking up here."

"Did you see who it was?" the detective demanded.

Dr. Watson shook his head and Sherlock resisted the urge to sigh heavily. "What do you remember about them? Anything?"

"They were strong. Yeah, real strong. Tall, I think."

"Likely a man, then." Sherlock mulled over what data he had. "Any enemies, Dr. Watson? Of you or your wife's?"

"None that I can think of. I can't imagine anyone not liking Sarah. She's...she was..." John grimaced, struggling for the words. Though mostly because he was having a hard time thinking of nice things to say. "She was a lovely person. So kind and warm."

"And yourself?"

"Like I said, I can't think of any at the moment."

The door to the room surged open and Harry came in, flicking a disdainful glance in Sherlock's direction as she did, before looking over at her brother with deep empathy. "You're awake. How are you feeling?" she gave him a weak, sad smile and he returned it in kind.

"Not too good, considering..." he let his eyes well up again as he looked over at her.

"I'm sorry." she moved her eyes over to Sherlock then. "Would you mind coming back later? My brother's in a bit of shock right now, not to mention pain." she didn't much care for Sherlock Holmes, he had been very demanding and callous when questioning her earlier and she was already so shaken up.

Sherlock flicked a glance over her, obvious to him that she had been drinking. Probably obvious to the brother as well. He had to be aware of her alcohol problem. It was nothing new. He probably had all he would get out of the doctor for right now, so he gathered himself from the stiff couch. He'd look over Lestrade's notes when he finally got around to questioning him, and pay another visit later.

"I should be cracking on anyhow. After all, I have a killer to catch." his gaze flitted to John Watson, who was looking down at the covers of his hospital bed, face distressed. "My condolences."

The doctor moved his eyes up to him. "Oh, thank you. I-I really hope you can catch whoever did this."

"As do I." with that Sherlock Holmes swept out of the room, dark coat trailing behind him.

John watched him leave, an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. He hadn't been very fond of the man. He seemed too...aware. John needed to get out of this hospital and back home.

Harry stuck around longer than John wanted. She was obviously half drunk, and still very shaken up by the whole thing, and one point she had started sobbing and talking about how sorry she was for being so much trouble all these years. John had managed to be vaguely comforting, though he wanted her to just leave and finish getting drunk back at her house so he wouldn't have to deal with the constant pity and drunken ramblings. He was on edge, and he didn't want to deal with his sister right now. Of course he couldn't make that obvious though, so he feigned grief and asked if he could have some time alone to cope. She obliged of course, and said she'd go out and get them some decent food.

John had become aware that he had slept through most of the night, well lied there pretending to be asleep, and by the time the detective had left it was mid morning. By the time he managed to get Harry to pop out for lunch, he was itching to get out of the damned hospital bed and hunt down a pack of cigarettes. He almost asked Harry to bring him back some, but she didn't know he had started smoking again. He had quit after Sarah's insistent nagging, but picked the habit pack up in secret a few months later, popping out for a smoke whenever he had the chance to without being caught by his wife.

Instead he waited until his sister had gone, and he called the nurse, asking if he could have a walk around the grounds for some fresh air. She obliged, as he only had a head concussion after all, and everyone seemed to know that he had lost his wife so the pitying looks were abundant as he walked down the hospital hallways. He had been allowed to dress back into his clothing that he had arrived in, as it was too chilly out to walk about in just a flimsy gown anyhow.

As he strolled around the little grassy area outside with a fountain and stone benches, he found his wallet, which he had covertly tucked into his back pocket when changing into the dark checkered button down and slacks, and counted the cash inside. He reached the gates and pathway that wound around to the front of the hospital and ducked out of the little somber fountain garden and circled to the parking lot. He went down to the corner store, relishing being free of that bed and sterile, suffocating room. After purchasing a pack of cigarettes and a lighter he stepped back out and immediately lit one up.

He inhaled long and slow, dragging the toxins deep into his lungs before he released them on a drawn out exhale. Oh, that was relief. He'd needed a cigarette since last night. He started back towards hospital after a few drags, didn't want anyone noticing that he wasn't still on the grounds. He was nearly to the parking lot again, walking down the sidewalk at a languid pace, enjoying the brisk air and last of the cigarette, when someone heading briskly down the walk from the opposite way bumped into him, and he cursed under his breath, turning to look back at the rude passerby. He opened his mouth to tell them to watch where they were going, but his jaw snapped shut when his eyes landed on the pallid, striking face of Sherlock Holmes.

John swallowed, stepping back, and dropping the cigarette behind his back as the detective began to apologize, then a look of realization came across his face.

"Dr. Watson?" he looked bewildered. "I thought you were still in the hospital."

"I am. I just needed some air. You know, I'm just...having a really hard time processing everything." he bit his lower lip, achieving a pained expression.

"They let you off the grounds?"

John looked up at him, pretending he was too distracted with his own anguish to fully comprehend at first. "Huh? Oh, yeah. Yeah, they understood, you know." he gave the detective a faint, helpless smile.

"I see." Sherlock nodded, his earlier confusion gone completely. He glanced up at the sky, monitoring the clouds. "I think it's going to snow soon. You should probably get back indoors."

"I was heading back now." John conceded with a nod. "Just needed some air."

Sherlock flicked his gaze over the doctor then. "You look like you're feeling better."

"Hm?" John took on a bemused tone. "Oh...well, I wouldn't go as far to say that. I'm certainly not feeling very well. Sick to my stomach, really."

"Of course, I just meant the concussion." Sherlock tapped his forehead, in the same spot where the doctor's injury was.

"Right. I'm a bit muddled." John adjusted his shirt collar, rubbing at his neck. "Concussion withstanding, I should be getting back." he gave the detective a nod, before swiftly making his way towards hospital grounds.

Sherlock watched him walk off, waiting until he was almost out of sight to pull out his cell phone and type out a text to Lestrade: _**Find the weapon? -SH**_

 

 

When John got back to his room he stowed the cigarettes and lighter in a boot once he had taken his shoes off, and chose to stay in his clothes, hoping he would be able to sway the doctor to release him.

He sat down on the bed, glancing down at his hands as they gripped the edge. Grey light slanted in through the shades, giving an even grimmer feel to his mood. He closed his eyes, picturing last night again, feeling the weight of the hammer in his hand. He breathed out shakily, feeling a bit dizzy as he remembered the warm stickiness of her blood. A thought occurred to him then as he was sitting there, and he opened his eyes, glancing down at his leg. He hadn't needed to use a cane since yesterday...since before he...

John's eyebrows pulled together faintly. What was that about? He stretched his leg out, testing it even though it hadn't had the slightest twinge of pain, as if the phantom aches would reappear at the mere notion of them. His therapist had insisted it was all in his head, so he was almost afraid that thinking of it would bring back the limp. It didn't, though. Not for the rest of the afternoon, as he ate lunch with Harry and ignored the strong smell of booze lingering on her, and even that evening when he was released from hospital and walked out the doors with his sister at his side.

"You should stay at my place." she affirmed, stumbling a bit when they took the steps. John pursed his lips. He hardly wanted to spend the rest of the night with his drunk sister, probably watching crap telly and pretending all was fine. He didn't need comfort or pity. He wanted to go back to his quiet house and burn all his wife's belongings.

"I think I just need to be alone right now, Harry." he said, voice catching just right.

"What? Are you sure?" she fumbled in her purse for her car keys.

"Yeah. I just need some time. I need to cope by myself."

"If you're sure, John, but I don't mind if you stay with me, really. Should you really be alone right now?"

They reached her car and John didn't move to the passenger side. He wasn't going to let her drive like that.

"It's fine. Why don't you let me drive?"

"Oh, but your head." she insisted.

"I'm fine." he gave her a small smile, and held out his hand for the keys.

She relented, giving them over. John palmed them, opening the driver door and sliding in behind the wheel. He glanced over at the lights from the ER building, more than a bit happy to be leaving. He could have smiled to himself a little bit as they drove away, but he kept his expression outwardly vacant, with a vague sadness tainting it.


	3. Buzzkill Me

John walked up the steps to his house, yanking the police tape down and going straight inside. The lights were on still, but the police had cleared out, leaving a few pieces of evidence in their wake; a plastic coffee cup, used gloves. He walked over to the basement stoop and peered down the stairs. The blood stain stared back at him under grimy lights. He swallowed, gripping the banister tighter.

 

The fireplace in the living room crackled in otherwise silence, eating the remains of wood and elements, as John paced around the bedroom. His wife's perfume hung in the air, evidence of her existence smothering the entire atmosphere. His skin crawled with an uncomfortable buzzing beneath his skin; a static desire to tear her clothes to shreds and scrub the room with bleach until her smell and memories dissipated from sight and mind. As he stood in the middle of the floor, staring at the wretched bed comforter she picked out, contemplating getting a large trash bag and discarding every one of her belongings, the doorbell rang and there was a short rap a moment later.

John glanced out the hallway. Taking a last look at the bedroom, he left it as is, and went downstairs. He opened the front door to find a grey-haired man, and standing just behind him was Sherlock Holmes.

John managed to stifle a long-suffering moan, and put on a bemused smile. "Can I help you?"

"Yeah, I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade, and this is-"

"He knows who I am." Sherlock waved a dismissive hand, his gaze unwavering on John.

Lestrade glanced back at him, looking like he wanted to ask a follow up question to that, but decided against it. "Right. I just wondered if you could come down to the station and answer a few questions."

"Uh, yeah, sure. Sure." John nodded. "Let me just...grab my coat." John disappeared from the doorway, and Greg glanced back to Sherlock.

"You've already questioned him?"

"Mm," the man hummed in agreement, hands clasped behind his back.

"Then why'd you come along? I'm sure you asked him everything I could think of."

"I'm merely here to observe. I'll be quiet." Sherlock gave him a very brief, very scathing, smile.

Lestrade breathed a half laugh/scoff. As if that was likely.

John came back to the open entryway, shrugging into a leather coat. "Right. Shall we?"

Lestrade nodded, turning around and back down the porch towards the car. John could feel his pulse inclining steadily, but he focused on watching his feet and keeping his breath easy and slow. A light drizzle started on the way to The Yard and picked up to a steady downfall by the time they arrived at their destination, and John didn't mind the cold drops that hit his exposed skin as he walked up to the doors behind DI Lestrade. He was vaguely aware of the consulting detective trailing just behind him.

They seated him in a room at the table, and left him alone for several minutes. John started to tap his fingers against the table but stopped himself as soon as he realized, dropping his hands under the table. After a minute of waiting, he tugged off his jacket, placing it on the back of his chair. He glanced down at his shirt, remembering when Sarah had bought it for him. He pursed his lips. He'd be binning that when he got back home.

Finally Lestrade came back in the room, a cup of coffee with him and a folder, along with a female officer with wiry shoulder-length curls, and minus a Sherlock Holmes. John was vaguely relieved by that latter fact.

"Dr. Watson, this is Sergeant Donovan. We're just gonna you ask a few things about last night. Alright?"

John nodded, clasping his hands on top of the table. "Sure thing. I want to help in anyway I can."

They asked most of the same things that Sherlock had inquired earlier, and John answered much the same way, regaining his air of sorrow and getting a bit choked up while discussing his wife. In conclusion, he had no idea who could want to hurt Sarah, and he never saw who it was, as he was knocked unconscious by a solid head slam into the wall and everything was real fuzzy and he was having a hard time processing everything right now. Nothing was missing from the house that he had noticed, but he said he would check and make sure and call if anything turned up missing or if he remembered anything else. Both of them offered their condolences as they saw John out, and he gave them a watery smile, thanking them and hoping they caught whatever bastard did this.

John exited the building, thinking of getting some take out on the way back. He paused slightly when he saw the figure of Sherlock Holmes walking down the steps, and he bit his lower lip, trying to pretend he hadn't noticed his presence as he passed by. He walked towards the street to hail a cab, and he saw Holmes out of the corner of his eye, stepping beside him.

"Feeling alright, Dr. Watson?"

John glanced over, putting on a bit of surprise as if he hadn't been very aware of the man standing on the walk next to him. "Oh- uh, I'm managing, yeah." he mustered a small smile, looking back out to the traffic.

Sherlock made a show of checking his empty pockets. "Do you think I could a borrow a cigarette?"

John glanced back over at him. "Um, yeah. Yeah." John shuffled into his coat pocket, pulling out the pack he had bought earlier and smoked three from thus far.

"Thanks," Sherlock took the pack, sliding a cigarette from the white box. He placed it between his lips, handing them back to the doctor. "Lighter?"

John picked that out from his pocket as well, and Sherlock lit his first cigarette in three weeks. He exhaled a lungful of smoke into the damp night air that surrounded them alongside a drizzle.

John spotted a cab coming, finally, and he flagged it down with relief loosening his shoulders as it veered towards his direction. His leg was beginning to ache and he wished he had that damned cane with him now. This was the first time he hadn't needed it after coming back to London. The cab pulled up to the curb and John stepped towards it.

"Can I ask you a question, Dr. Watson?"

John paused, fingers gripping the handle, and looked back expectantly. "Yes?"

"What did you do with the murder weapon?"

John's pulse got stuck in his throat, jolting into double time. "I-I'm sorry?" he stammered out, blinking several times.

"What did you do with the weapon you used to kill your wife?" Sherlock questioned slowly.

"I'm sorry, I don't know...what in the word you're talking about." John's eyebrows knitted together in deep confusion. _This fucker_. He felt heat creeping up his neck, despite the chill. "I didn't kill my wife, Mr. Holmes."

"Please," Sherlock smiled smugly, cigarette hovering by his lips. "Don't you tire of that innocent facade? You do it well, I'll give you that." he took a drag, quite enjoying the long coveted taste. John smoked the exact kind he did when he gave in and bought a pack.

"Yeah, alright. I'm leaving, then. You're...you've got the wrong person. I didn't kill my wife." John stated firmly, before ducking into the backseat of the cab and shutting the door behind him. He gave the driver his home address, and sat back into the seat, nails digging into his palms.

Sherlock eyed the cab as it went. John Watson was starting to intrigue him more and more.

 

 

The funeral took place on the forthcoming weekend. It was a small party consisting of Sarah's parents, a few friends of hers, and John's sister, who showed up late and in a state of near-drunken clumsiness. John shouldered through the ceremony with his sister wavering at his side, and listening to the quiet sobs of Sarah's mother. He felt nauseous and he wasn't sure if it was guilt or something else was the reason. He gave a small speech about how much he adored his late wife and how much of a sweet, loving person she had been. Lying through his teeth with a sad smile. He got choked up halfway through and had to pause to clear his throat several times. In actuality he was itching to get this fucking thing over with and see the casket get buried six feet below him while he stood there alive and well, on top of the grave.

When John finished his mourning words and stepped back to the crowd, he spotted a tall, dark figure at the back. John faltered a bit, almost tripping over a groove of dirt but composed himself beforehand. _Sherlock fucking Holmes_. What the hell was that guy doing here? They locked eyes for a moment before John looked away, going back to his place at his sister's side. She clutched his arm, giving him support he didn't need but he leaned into his sister slightly anyway, grasping her hand. He watched the coffin lower into the earth, and felt a rush of morbid joy. _Oh, he's going to hell_. He almost let a smile slip past, but he swallowed it back, glad that his back was turned to the detective.

When it was over everyone left to their cars, to drive to Sarah's parents house for the reception. John had almost thought he was going to sidle past when Mr. Holmes called out to him.

"Dr. Watson," a smooth voice intoned.

John gritted his teeth for a moment, turning back to look at him.

Harry glanced between them, just then noticing his presence there whereas John had been acutely aware the last several minutes.

"What're you doing here?" she questioned, her words not as clear as they should have been.

"Paying my respects." Sherlock didn't bother to disrupt his gaze from Dr. Watson. "If you'd excuse us for a moment. I do believe you have a bottle of whiskey in your glove box that you’re desperate to see to. Why don't you?"

Harry gave him a near murderous look. John motioned for her to go on. “I’ll just be a minute.”

“Fine,” she stalked off through the cemetery towards the road, more than likely going to attend to that whiskey after all, John didn’t doubt.

John met Sherlock’s gaze. “What do you want?”

“You look well rested.” the detective noted.

“ _What_ do you want?”

“A confession would be a start.” Sherlock shrugged, tucking his hands into the pockets of his long coat. He was dressed in all black that contrasted with his pallid skin sharply. He blended into the graveyard air like some ethereal pale-skinned ghost sculpted of ivory marble watching over the dead.

John breathed a laugh of bitterness, shaking his head. “Don’t you have better things to do than harass me?”

“So eager to get rid of me. Something you’re trying to hide? Where’s your cane, Dr. Watson?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Your cane. You favor your right side most of the time, and the way you stand and the lines on your hand shows that you’re accustomed to gripping a cane. Where is it?”

“I haven’t needed it as often.” John answered easily.

“Since after you murdered your wife?”

“Oh, for god’s sake. That’s enough of this.” John brushed past him, yanking his suit jacket straight.

“I just have a few more questions to ask about your wife’s murder. You did use a hammer, correct? The wounds are consistent-”

John reeled on him, blue eyes darkening drastically. “ _That's enough_.”

Sherlock stopped mid sentence, lips parted still, and stared. It almost seemed like the atmosphere was darkened by the severity of the doctor’s sudden mood.

“Now, I just lost my wife and you’re following me around, harassing me.” John uttered quietly, hands clenching into fists and then loosening again.

“I’m merely trying to-”

“Convict me of a crime I didn’t commit.” John finished hoarsely, giving him a look like night smothering out every particle of light.

Sherlock was quiet for several long moments, his ice colored eyes clouded by unspoken thoughts. His heart was racing all the sudden. Finally, he formed words again. “John,- May I call you John?”

Watson shook his head, stepping through the grass. “Good day, Mr. Holmes.”

He walked away, once again leaving the detective staring after his fleeting presence, feeling an uneasy buzz through his veins. There was something indescribable about John Watson that gave Sherlock previously unknown sensations. Some opaque ambience cloaking him like a halo of mysterious gloom that seeped into Sherlock’s skin and itched its way through every fiber of his nervous system. It was some sort of... _sentiment_.

As John reached the driver’s side of Harry’s car, he cast a glance back at Sherlock Holmes. He bit his bottom lip, uneasiness filling his stomach like lead. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to be able to shake the detective easily.


	4. Like a Light I'm Luring You

In the week following the funeral John went back to work at the clinic. Everyone offered their sympathies and were shocked by the violence that had occurred in his peaceful, seemingly perfect, home-life. Outwardly he may have come across as detached and suffering; but inwardly he was contemplating strangling the next person that shuffled up to him with an apology for his loss and a comforting hand on his arm or shoulder. He had been looking forward to coming back to work, but after the first few hours he was ready to toss his white coat in the trash and stalk out of the clinic. Even some of his patients had heard about it in the papers, and recognized his name, ready with many a pale sorry.

His lunch break came and he rubbed a hand over his face, the couple day old stubble prickling against his palm. He slipped out the back, shuffling in his lab coat pocket for cigarettes and lighter. He found them and lit up. Less than a minute later his nurse, Mary, found him and said something about a walk-in that was requesting him personally. She had cast a curious glance at the cigarette, too, but said nothing of the doctor smoking.

Considering he wasn't awfully hungry at the moment, he decided to take the patient and push his break back. After Mary ducked inside again, he tossed the cigarette and made the way into his office. He settled into his chair, and heard the door open a few moments later with Mary letting the patient in. John turned in his seat, eyes landing on the figure strolling in past Mary's small form. "Oh, for-" John uttered, cutting himself off as he sighed in aggravation and placed a hand to his forehead.

"Everything alright, Dr. Watson?" Mary asked, looking puzzled and somewhat concerned by his reaction.

"Fine, yeah. You can leave. Thanks." he murmured, dropping his hand to rub the back of his neck.

She glanced between doctor and patient, and then let herself back out, closing the door behind her.

"John," the dark-haired man greeted amiably.

"What are you doing here?" John looked at him, stifling his irritation much as he could.

"I think I may have some cracked ribs. I need to have someone take a look at them; make sure it's nothing serious."

"Don't you have a regular doctor?"

"No."

"Fine, fine. Whatever. Unbutton your shirt." John said, standing up.

"I was hoping you'd say that." Sherlock intoned, beginning to slide off his jacket.

John paused, cocking his head in question. "Sorry?"

"I've done some research into your past."

Dr. Watson heaved a heavy sigh, snapping on a pair of gloves. "Of course you have."

"You didn't have a very happy marriage." Sherlock took off his blazer next, placing it on the table along with his coat.

John cast a glare in his direction briefly. "No marriage is perfect, but I loved my wife, Mr. Holmes."

"Oh, but you didn't." his lithe fingers began unfastening his white shirt. "That may have to do with the fact that you're predominantly interested in men, or simply that Sarah was rather critical of many aspects of your personality and insisted that you had changed since being discharged from the military, and constantly criticized your choices. She seemed rather irritating, I don't blame you for killing her. I probably would have, too." Sherlock shrugged out of his shirt, revealing more flawless ivory skin stretched thin over lean muscle.

John diverted his gaze. "She was right, I did change. But  _you_ are wrong, she was a very supportive wife." lying about those facts was becoming increasingly easy. "Now, can we stop chatting and crack on with it? I'm on my break still."

"You had several boyfriends in college. I've spoken to them all." Sherlock continued, as if John hadn't spoken. "You have a fairly non-violent past. Actually quite the peacemaker."

"Mm," John agreed absently, not wishing to encourage him but not wanting to be utterly impolite either because he was associated with the police. He gestured for Sherlock to sit down on the table. The detective complied, shirt hanging open.

"How'd you hurt your ribs?" he hoped to veer the conversation elsewhere.

"A case." Sherlock's steel eyes watched John's hands as they began to gently feel the area in question.

"Right. Tell me when it hurts." John pressed in different places, testing.

Sherlock winced ever so slightly when John got to the seventh rib.

"There?"

"Yes. Are you selling your house?"

John glanced up at him, hands stilling. "Why should I?"

"Well, you certainly don't need all that room with it just being you."

"I guess not." John conceded, continuing his examination.

Sherlock tightened his lips when the pain increased on the eighth rib, but not just because it was sorer. "You're pressing harder."

"Don't think so. Is the pain worse here?"

"Yes."

John's hand lowered further.

"I know an excellent real estate agent I could get you in contact with. I helped him with a case a couple years back-"

John pushed his thumb into the bruising surface of the detective's ninth rib and Sherlock hissed in pain. He was a bit rougher than needed, they were both aware.

"Yeah, you've got a cracked rib. The others are just badly bruised, though. Perhaps fractured. I'll need to take some X-rays, make sure everything is okay internally."

"Of course, doctor."

John gave him a smile, and it was almost genuine. Sherlock felt his breath hitch in his throat and he mourned the loss of contact when John took his hands away. He cooperated with the X-ray process and waited patiently while they were developed, as Dr. Watson scribbled on a sheet at his desk.

"Some Morphine would be nice, if you could." Sherlock intoned lightly, lying back on the table and propping his head up on an arm.

John glanced back at him, flicking a lingering gaze over the svelte form stretched out in his office. For the first time he fully realized how attractive Sherlock Holmes was. "Yeah, sure. I'll write you a prescription." he murmured, despite the fact that he wouldn't normally have prescribed Morphine for a couple injured ribs.

"I interrupted your lunch break." the raven-haired man mused.

"I still have a bit of time left, it's not a big deal." John made out the prescription for a moderate dosage of Morphine.

"I'll buy you lunch. There's a Chinese place near here that has great food. You can tell by the bottom of the door handle..." Sherlock slid his gaze over to John, who was watching him. "Is that a yes?" he prompted at the doctor's stare.

"Uh," John blinked, aware suddenly that he had been ogling the detective and gotten far too caught up in the sound of his velvet baritone. "-sure, yeah."

"Good."

John pondered his decision, noting that he had actually agreed to go out to lunch with the man that wanted to convict him for murder. Perhaps that maybe made him seem less suspicious overall; not being so overtly hostile toward the detective. "I'm gonna go check on those X-rays." he nodded at the other man, letting a small smile slip.

The X-Rays turned out to show nothing of concern, as John thought. He brought them for his patient to see in any case, but as soon as John mentioned everything was in order internally, Sherlock had no interest in the images. The doctor wrapped up his ribs snug enough to support them, and suggested he keep them wrapped for the next couple weeks while they heal.

"I'd like to see you in a couple weeks to make sure they're healing up well. Alright?" John moved away, letting Mr. Holmes button his shirt back up.

"You could see me whenever you liked if you were so inclined."

John glanced over at him, merely staring for a moment. "Are you-..."

"Hitting on you? Yes. Obviously. It shouldn't have taken you so long to catch on, John." the detective pulled his blazer back in place.

"This coming from the person whom accused of me murder on more than one occasion?"

"Yes. And?" Sherlock stood, tall and graceful and impeccably handsome, one had to admit.

"What are you getting at? Do you think you'll get me to confess - to a crime I didn't commit by the way - if you try and what, seduce me?"

"Trying." Holmes scoffed lightly, enveloping his slender frame in the greatcoat and turning his collar up. "It's not trying if you've already succeeded. You're obviously interested in me. Which I admit, I'm quite pleased about."

John ran a hand through the outgrown locks of his silvery blonde hair, mulling the detective's words over. "I wouldn't call this succeeding."

"Why not?"

"You're far too blunt. When you're trying to seduce someone you don't show your hand; it's about subtlety. It's a game."

That made Sherlock pause, seeming to rethink his entire strategy. John smirked.

"Think I'll take a rain check on lunch, I have some work to take care of." Dr. Watson uttered, walking to the door and opening it as a plain gesture for his client to leave.

"Dinner?" Sherlock proposed, sounding a tad less confident.

John wanted to grab him and kiss him right then, the man was fucking adorable, but he resisted. "Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it, and opened it again. "I'm not mistaken. You are interested. Why won't you have dinner with me?"

"Because you think I'm a murderer."

"And?"

"I don't go out with people who think I'm a psychopath."

"Well, but you do have psychopathic tendencies."

Watson gave him a look of unabated derision.

"So, if I didn't believe you had murdered your wife then you would go out with me?"

"I'd be more inclined to, yeah."

"Dull." the detective rolled his eyes. "Murderers are my forte, John."

"Then I'm definitely not your forte." the doctor retorted.

"Oh, but you quite are and you know it." Holmes swept past him, leaving the office in a fleeting visage of flourishing coat trims and lithe movements.

John tapped his fingers against the door he was holding. He exited his office as well, going out to where Sherlock Holmes was at the front desk. "Schedule him in for a check up in two weeks." John told Mary, hands in the pockets of his lab coat. "And don't charge him anything for this visit, it's fine." Sherlock's gaze burned into John. "You can pay for dinner." Dr. Watson remarked.

"Eight o' clock?" Sherlock withheld the satisfied smile dancing on the edge of his lips.

John nodded. "Eight."

"I'll meet you at your place."

"I'll see you then." the doctor turned and headed back into his office.

 

 

Sherlock approached the door of the mundane suburban house, hopping up the steps. He knocked on the door promptly, waiting with impatience though it was only a few passing moments before the entryway opened to a rather appealing looking doctor. Sherlock's gaze raked over every detail of John Watson; he was adorned in all black, the same as he had been earlier at his office save for the white lab coat, though currently was in a black cashmere jumper, black slacks, and leather loafers.

John nodded at the tall figure looming in his doorway in that brooding black coat. "Hello, Sherlock."

Holmes dragged his analyzing vision up to the doctor's brown-tinged blue irises. "Hello."

The two stood still for a long moment, staring at one another. "Not going to invite me in?" Sherlock questioned, breaking the brief but leaden silence.

"No. We're going out to dinner. Remember?" John stepped out onto the porch, shutting the door to his home.

The closer proximity let Sherlock inhale the scent of John's bay rum aftershave. "Of course. I am the one who insisted, after all."

"Indeed you did. Where are we going, then?"

"Is Chinese still amiable?"

"Sure."

 

The two men set off in a cab hailed by Holmes and rode in silence for the first couple of minutes.

"Is the black of significance?" the dark-haired detective inquired out of the blue.

John looked away from the window, turning his attention to the silhouette beside him. "Hm?"

"You're only wearing black."

"Yes."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. "So?"

"I'm in mourning." John muttered, gazing back out at the passing haze of street lights.

"Are you religious?"

"Why are you asking?"

"Wearing black for mourning is typically a religious custom."

"No, I'm not." John answered.

"Then why are you doing it?"

"Because I want to."

"Do you typically do what you want without regarding the intentions or motivations behind the action?"

The doctor moved his eyes back to Sherlock. "What are you on about?"

"I'm merely asking if you frequently act on your whims and urges without introspection."

"Did I just walk into a therapy session?" John mused aloud.

"Since you've brought that up; why did you stop attending your therapy sessions three months ago? According to your therapist she felt there was more work that needed to be done." As Sherlock sat looking at him, waiting for a response, John slowly started to chuckle quietly. The detective's brow furrowed slightly. "Why are you laughing?"

Watson leaned back into the seat, still laughing softly. "You really are convinced I'm a psychopathic deviant, aren't you?"

"Slightly, yes."

John licked his lips, leaning his elbows on his knees as he gazed over at the dark-haired man. The fleeting lights illuminated John's features in a shadowy, shimmering wake. "If I was, why the hell would I let you in on it?"

"Because I find you morbidly interesting." Sherlock grinned. "Really, what did you with the evidence, John? I'm dying to know."

John stared at him, and the detective stared back, eager. "What evidence?" the doctor muttered finally.

Sherlock sighed, expression falling into one of exasperation.

 

The cab pulled up to the curb in front of a neon open sign and paper lanterns decorated doorway. Sherlock paid the fare and they exited the vehicle, approaching the restaurant with the detective leading the way. He held the door open for his company.

John paused, looking at the other man. "One more thing about me murdering my wife and I go back home, yeah?"

Sherlock was vaguely irritated by the conversation rule. "Fine."

They entered the building. It was a locally owned place, cozy lighting and not much seating. They were settled at a table and left to look over the menus.

John flipped through the alcoholic beverages, scanning the choices. Their waitress came up, a petite girl with long dark hair, and John recognized her as one of his regular patients, Linda Park. He smiled at her. "Linda, I didn't know you worked here."

Her wide brown eyes filled with familiarity and she smiled warmly at him. "Oh, hello, Dr. Watson."

"How's the ankle doing?" he asked, remembering she had been in not more than a week and a half ago with a bad sprain.

"Oh, it's fine now. Thanks." she blushed lightly, her smile turning sheepish.

"Glad to hear it." John smiled, glancing down at his menu before his gaze flicked over to Sherlock, who had already been watching him.

"Can I get you two something to drink?" Linda asked. John promptly ordered a malt liquor, and Sherlock requested tea.

The girl left and John leafed through the rest of the menu past the beverages.

"Patient?"

"Yeah," John glanced up.

"She's interested in you."

The doctor pursed his lips, gaze on the food selections written out. "I don't mix business with pleasure."

"Which would you consider this?"

"You trying to pry a confession out of me?" John suggested.

"You said not to bring up the murder of your wife. You broke your own rule. Does that mean it's no longer off limits?" Sherlock perked up.

John set his menu down, mood darkening. "I still don't want to talk about that."

"But if I just wanted to ask a few questions regarding-"

The doctor silenced him by pushing the heel of his foot into Sherlock's inner thigh, hard. His voice was low, laced with promise of unkind outcomes if his warning wasn't heeded. "Stop."

The detective's words got stuck in his throat, and he swallowed them back down. He could feel the pulse in his neck. His veins buzzed with the countering adrenaline at the threat sitting across from him. His fight or flight response was triggered, but he was going to initiate neither. Instead he merely closed his mouth, eyes flicking over the doctor.

Linda approached with their drinks, setting them down in the respective places. "Are you ready to order?"

"I think so." John answered, a pleasant smile now on his face as he glanced over to her. He went with a noodle dish.

Sherlock found it difficult to speak evenly when the doctor's sole was still pressed into his thigh, but managed.

When their waitress left again John let his foot fall, skimming the line of the detective's slacks as he did so. "Since you know an unsettling amount of things about me, why don't you tell me something about yourself?"

"What would you like to know?"

"How'd you come to be a- _consulting_ \- detective?" the doctor questioned.

"I told you, murderers are my forte. I enjoy solving crimes; I'm good at it. Serial killers are what I live for."

"That's incredibly morbid sounding." John drank from his bottle of strong beer. "Delightful. How old are you exactly?"

"I'm eleven years, five months and thirteen days younger than you."

John blinked. "Right. So, you're twenty-nine. You could have just said that."

"I did."

The doctor's fingers lingered around the neck of the beer bottle, his gaze lingering on the detective. "So, did you attend school to become a detective?"

"I studied chemistry in university until I was twenty-one. I attained all knowledge on my primary interests and then I dropped out and studied independently, as the lectures became mind numbing."

The doctor was impressed, and it showed on his expression. "That's remarkable; to say the least. I can easily picture you as the mad scientist type, yeah." John smirked a little. "So, you're mysterious, a genius, strangely charming, and eleven years younger than me. What exactly are we doing here?" John gave him a vaguely bemused look, though he was smiling a bit.

"You're clever in your own respects, a murderer, very attractive, and eleven years older than me. Why would we not be here?"

John shook his head. "I'm not a murderer. You just want me to be because the thought of it gets you going."

The detective arched an eyebrow slightly. "Gets me going?"

"Yes. It excites you. Possibly in more ways than one."

"You're suggesting I found killers sexually appealing?"

John shrugged, taking a swig of alcohol. "...The way you talk, I think you would."

"I'd find you sexually desirable even if you hadn't committed homicide."

"Must be so, considering I  _haven't_ committed homicide."

Sherlock looked as if he wanted to roll his eyes. "Must we keep up with the false pretenses?"

The doctor merely sat back in his chair watching him, drinking slow and steady. "Is this some lame set up? Are you wearing wires?"

"That's not my area, but feel free to check if it would appease you."

"I'm not worried. Just curious if that's the motive behind this..." John trailed off, gesturing between them. "Whatever it is."

"Date."

John laughed aloud. "Is that what it is, now? A date? Are you serious?"

"I was under the impression that when someone flirts with you and then asks you to dinner it's considered a date. That's precisely what I did."

"Yeah, but..." John bit his lower lip.

"I've also made it clear that I am attracted to you. How does this not qualify as a date?"

"Because you want to harass me into confessing to a crime? Whether you like me or not is beside the point, you really just want to hear me say I did it. Apparently you think that charming me will do the trick. Unfortunately for you, I have nothing to confess. Must be disappointing."

"I've never considered myself charming, nor have others. I admit that I'd like to hear you say you murdered Sarah Watson, purely for my own satisfaction. That is not though, the intention behind this date."

"What is?"

"I wanted to spend more time with you."

The doctor smiled at that. "Do you know what my intention for coming was?"

"I assume the same."

"There's only one reason I go on dates, and that's the end outcome."

"Sex." Sherlock supplied.

John made a small shrug of agreement. "That's it."

"Should I have invited you to my flat instead of dinner?"

The doctor shook his head, smiling a bit to himself. "I'm not sleeping with you."

The detective gave him a somewhat skeptical look. "You just stated that as your intention."

"Sherlock," John become somber and gazed at him now with melancholy blue eyes. "I just lost my wife."

" _You_ killed her."

"That's what you want me to have done. You're delusional, you know that?"

" _Delusional_?" the detective repeated, deep voice scathing. "You're a psychopath and I'm the delusional one? I operate solely on facts and logic. You operate on unstable emotion and whims. _Which of us is delusional_?"

John felt anger burn through his veins. His eyes smoldered with it, fingers gripping the bottle in his hand too tightly. "I'm the psychopath?" he breathed. "Your best friend is probably a fucking corpse."

"Pray tell, who is yours? The voice in your head?"

John chuckled lowly, beginning to lose his self control. He had half a mind to reach over the table and wrap his hands around that wonderfully pale neck. He'd love to see the violet and crimson contusions that would bloom against such flawless creamy skin. It would look delicious. "Oh, yes. In fact right now that voice thinks you'd look fantastic with my hands around your throat." he murmured, gazing down as his thumb circled the lip of the bottle.

The dark-haired man blinked silvery blue eyes at the doctor, slightly widened and pupils dilated. His next inhale was more ragged than normal. In that moment their food arrived, and John shifted back into a friendly manner, thanking Linda with a pleasant smile. Sherlock watched as the girl flirted with Dr. Watson, nearly oblivious to the detective's existence across the table. John seemed to return in kind, far more kind and cheerful than he was when talking to Sherlock. He felt opaquely uneasy by the time Linda left their presence again.

John ate his meal, gazing as the waitress hosted another table nearby. He pulled his sight over to Sherlock after a minute though, seeing the man sitting there with a blank expression, immobile. "Aren't you going to eat?" Watson uttered.

"Not hungry. Thinking." the man responded, lacing his hands together.

The doctor watched him the entire time he ate, the dark-haired figure adjacent to him perfectly still throughout, staring off at nothing. He freely admired the very alluring features of the consulting detective, even down to the sliver of pallid skin at his collar, the way the white button down fit snug on his lanky frame. John mused that he'd like to unfasten the rest of those buttons and run his fingers over the chest beneath. Most of the time he spent eating he was fantasizing in his head about all the things he'd enjoy doing to that milky-skinned body, whilst the detective sat there unaware caught up in his mind.

Finally, after eating dinner and finishing two more beers, John asked for the check. Linda brought it out and handed him the folded bill. He flipped it open to glance at the total, seeing the restaurant's business card turned backwards with a phone number written down on it stuck in with the receipt. John's fingers slid out the number, sticking it in his wallet and replaced it with a credit card.

He set the bill back down on the table, looking over at the detective. "Sherlock."

There was no sign of response and John sighed on an exhale. "Sherlock? Are you...comatose?" John inquired, to himself because it was obvious he wasn't being heard at the moment. He reached over the table, indulging himself on a whim, and lightly ran a finger down the line of Sherlock's neck until it dipped into the hollow of his clavicle. "Sherlock," he drawled, dragging out the syllables in a low voice.

The detective seemed to come back to reality, looking down at the hand resting at the bottom of his neck, the thumb pressing a bit firmly into his jugular. John felt him swallow, those silver eyes flicking up to look at him. "

You've been zoned out for the past half hour. Can we leave? It's getting sort of boring here."

"Alright." Sherlock uttered, more quietly than normal. John smiled a bit, taking his hand back. Sherlock was disappointed at the loss of warm contact. Neither of them took much notice when Linda came and took the bill, leaving to run the card. She returned a moment later, setting it back on the table top.

"Have a good evening, Dr. Watson." she said.

"Thank you, Linda." he gave her a smooth smile.

She was blushing as she walked away. John stored his credit card back into his wallet after signing his signature. "Shall we?"

 

Sherlock stood close to John as they stepped outside, relishing the scent of malt liquor and dark cologne that came from him.

"Well," the doctor spoke. "This has been interesting. I expect the next time I see you will probably be at either Scotland Yard or a courtroom."  
"No."

John looked at him fully then.

"No?" "I have no intention of going after you. I'll tell Lestrade I have no leads. If I can't find anything on you he most certainly will not."

"Ah, because there's nothing to find." John smiled coolly, hands tucked into his pockets.

"Of course, Dr. Watson." Sherlock muttered, tone listless. "Are you going to call her?"

"Pardon?"

"The waitress gave you her number. Are you going to call?"

John's pulse was humming and oscillating like carnival lights. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

The detective watched wordlessly and discontent as he watched the doctor walk away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I so enjoy writing a dark!John. Also I formally apologize for the lack of updates the past couple months, I've had some medical troubles in the family and my writing schedule was mixed up. Hopefully it will get back on track as I'm hardly sleeping and surviving solely off caffeine and cigarettes, so I should get some writing done. In fact I'm already five chapters into another Johnlock fan fiction; which I intend to post when it's written out and edited, probably within the next couple months. Cheers, guys.


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